


Nurse!

by itsukoii



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1992, Bloating, Diarrhea, Farting, Fluff, Food Poisoning, M/M, Set during the holidays, Sickfic, just guys being dudes, they're not actually dating because it's all about the pining the yearning the longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsukoii/pseuds/itsukoii
Summary: Richie manages to give himself food poisoning, because of course he does, and Eddie's left to deal with the consequences, because of course he is.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	Nurse!

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so uh it was only a matter of time before i infected this tag with my nasty kinks, and i've finally done so. this is basically a kink fic disguised as a sickfic but it can be read either way lol. please be respectful, and i do hope you enjoy! also, merry christmas to those who celebrate! (it's still christmas eve here, and i kind of rushed to get this done before christmas because i stupidly set it during the holidays haha)
> 
> some warnings before we proceed: farting, sickness, diarrhea (not very explicit but it's there), food

_December, 1992_

It's as calm a day as any in the Tozier residence, though a certain Kaspbrak is munching on some chips in the corner of the couch — he always snacks when he's at Richie's, because god knows Sonia doesn't let him eat candy or junk despite how unhealthy every processed meal they eat actually is. He shoves a handful into his mouth and crunches down loudly just to spite her, even though she's not even here.

On the other side of the couch lounges Richie, with the pole-like noodles he calls "legs" sprawled over Eddie's lap ("I’m sitting here, Richie. do you really have to take over the entire couch? really? _really?_ ). Eddie had argued, but in the end, didn't bother throwing Richie's legs aside. He absentmindedly strokes Richie's calf with his free, non-greasy, non-crumby hand as they watch _A Christmas Story_ because it's December and Richie insisted on it; Eddie didn't have the heart to say no. While they argue and bicker constantly, Eddie can't bring himself to shut Richie down when there's something he really wants to do; he knows how much it hurts, a la Sonia.

There's a glowing Christmas tree in the corner of the room, filled with funky ornaments on behalf of Richie and plenty of those horrible little Christmas crafts Eddie remembers everyone having to make in kindergarten and first grade. Eddie thinks it's cute that Maggie and Went kept them, and it's even cuter seeing how Richie goes pink in the face whenever someone points them out. _Richie was quite the little artiste,_ Maggie would say, and Richie would slightly preen under the compliment every time.

The Kaspbraks never do much decorating for the holidays ("the decorations are so cheap and sharp, Eddie-bear, don't touch them!"); the Toziers do plenty, and Eddie always finds himself in awe at their house every year. Sometimes, Maggie lets Eddie help them decorate, and he finds that some of his happiest moments are spent here in the Tozier household.

_"I triple-dog-dare ya!"_ Eddie hears Richie saying animatedly along with Schwartz as the famous frozen pole-licking scene comes around. He does this every time they watch a movie: recites lines and seems to check them into a mental catalogue for future voice references. It's oddly endearing, Eddie finds himself thinking.

Suddenly, Eddie snorts to himself, catching Richie's attention quickly.

"What's so funny?"

Eddie tries to hide his smile when he speaks. "Remember when you first saw this movie in, like, third grade, and licked a frozen pole because you thought it was staged?"

Richie burrows his face in his hands, but laughs nonetheless, then kicks out the leg Eddie's got a grip on. "Don't fucking remind me!"

"And— and I was losing my shit because we were going to be late for class, all because my dumbfuck of a best friend _licked a goddamn frozen pole."_ Eddie's laughing as he recalls the memory vividly, and now Richie is, too. Richie has a loud, goofy laugh — sometimes he even makes these ugly goose-honk like noises — and Eddie is enthralled every time. "Stan had to pour his hot chocolate on your tongue to get it unstuck. You know how fucking lucky you were, Rich? You could've been stuck to that pole for _days._ "

"Oh, please!" Richie makes an exaggerated hand gesture, "if I were gone for days, your mom would've started goin' through withdrawals of my sweet lovin' and sniffed me out herself!"

Eddie scowls.

"Shut up, Richie. I should've left you stuck to that pole while I still had the chance." That's a lie, and they both know it. Richie's eyes are gleaming when Eddie meets them with his own dark glare. He can't look away.

"Hey, Eds."

("don't call me that.")

"What?"

"I've got something for ya'."

And then Richie is scooting down, closer to Eddie, keeping himself upright on his hands. Eddie watches in disgust as Richie's skinny arms bend just a little too much in the wrong direction — something about being double-jointed or some shit, but chances are, Richie's just some freakazoid. There's a mischievous gleam in the dark eyes of said freakazoid, and very quickly, Eddie's body goes warm with fear.

"What the fuck—"

There's no time for Eddie to finish his sentence before Richie is scrunching his face up in determination and a deep rumbling noise emits from his ass a moment later; Eddie is practically throwing himself back with a shriek as he attempts to escape the imminent wrath of Richie's fart. Richie throws his head back in all of his stupid, loud-laughing glory, even when Eddie kicks him with force.

"Richie!" Eddie barks, sharp, and retches as he's sinking as far back into the corner of the couch as he can go. He lifts the collar of his sweater up over his nose, glaring daggers at Richie who's still laughing — snorting by this point — laying on his back with his legs in the air, bent at the knee. His body trembles with giggles. It's infuriating. "You're so fucking disgusting! Are you trying to give me pink eye?"

Richie's laughter begins to fizzle out, but Eddie gives one more sharp kick to Richie's bum for good measure. "It was a gift! Specifically prepared for you!"

"You're a child. You stink like one, too. Jesus." Eddie keeps his nose shielded, but gags again underneath his sweater. "Shut up and watch the movie. You're the one who wanted to watch it so bad. And fucking— _move over."_ another kick to Richie's bum in an attempt to shove the lanky pole further away. he moves, but only a little, and his grin is sickening. Eddie scowls and looks back to the tv, a little lost in the plot now that Richie's distracted him. He keeps his nose covered for ten minutes _at least._ His delicious chips are forgotten.

Because the universe hates Eddie, not even minutes after he uncovers his nose and takes a deep breath of the fresh air outside of his sweater does his patience really begin to waver — because, with no warning this time, as Richie's curled into a ball on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest (his bum facing Eddie!), does he rip another bout of eye-watering gas with a whole body-wracking amount of giggles.

"Just blowin' you a kiss, Eds!" Richie defends through laughter when Eddie kicks him _hard_. His nose returns to the safety of freshly-washed woven fabric, scowling so deeply at Richie, he's sure he's already developing wrinkles at sixteen. Richie's going to send him to an early grave, surely.

And then— not even three, maybe *four* minutes later— Richie's doing it _again._

"Fucking cut it out, Richie. It's not funny." When Eddie turns his face to send another death-glare Richie's way, his eyes widen and his brows lift when he sees Richie curled up even tighter into himself. He's crossed his arms over his stomach and there's no trace of mirth on his features — there's only the scrunch of discomfort. It's concerning enough for Eddie to lean a bit closer to get a better look.

"I’m not trying to — _fuck_ — to be funny," Richie says, interrupted by a groan of pain mid-sentence. His stomach rumbles as his mouth parts in a gasp, followed by a wince. It's concerning enough for Eddie to scooch closer.

"Richie?" Eddie asks softly, an eyebrow lifted in curiosity as he peers at the beanpole. the movie is forgotten.

"My stomach... fucking _hurts."_ There's a wince behind Richie's words, and no longer does Eddie have the heart to be angry at him, no matter how much he may stink.

"Richie, I swear to god if this is just some ploy for you to fart in my face I swear to fuck—"

"Wha, ah'd nevah!" Richie replies in his southern belle voice, and suddenly, Eddie is unconvinced. it must be visible in his face, because then Richie says, "I’m kidding, Eddie. My stomach really fucking hurts. I mean, listen to it — did I swallow a bear?"

Eddie does listen; Richie's stomach is growling and rumbling, a sound audible even over the background noise of the television; it's nothing normal, and neither is the amount of gas Richie's letting out, either. He stands up and walks to Richie's side.

"Lay on your back and let me see."

"As you wish, doctor K!" despite how unruly and annoying Richie can be, he's obedient towards Eddie when it matters most — especially when Eddie's fretting over him in any way. He rolls over like a damn puppy, arms bent at his chest and thighs upright. It's infuriating how cute (in some bizarre way) he looks. Eddie is quick to ignore the thought as he begins his examination.

Lifting Richie's shirt, it's clear to Eddie that Richie is bloated. Lack of thorough exercise has always left Richie a bit soft in the gut, but now it's expanded and tight. It looks uncomfortable, and the rumbling doesn't stop. Richie groans low and then rubs a hand to his own stomach, massaging it. Eddie watches.

"You're really bloated," Eddie says.

"Full of love for your mom, Eds!" Richie winks back, and Eddie rolls his eyes. Richie winces then, holding his stomach tighter and curling a little into himself.

"Uh, I gotta—" there's the oddest shy tinge to Richie's voice, evoking both warm feelings as well as concerned ones within Eddie. He nods.

"Let it out," Eddie urges softly, now that he knows Richie isn't farting to be annoying; he's genuinely aching and clearly full of gas. It's no good to keep it in, and Richie obeys by letting another rumble escape his behind. It's probably indigestion, Eddie muses, but decides to keep a close eye on Richie, anyway. In fact— "Wait, sit up for a second."

Richie doesn't ask any questions, but obeys anyway, albeit with a groan as he holds his belly upon sitting up. A warm feeling behind him makes him jump slightly. "Eddie?"

"Sit back, now." Richie does; he sits back against Eddie's chest, who's now sat with his knees spread on either side of Richie and Richie between them, reclining back as he lets his head rest against Eddie's shoulder.

"Well, now; what's all this sudden, sweet tender lovin'?" Richie shoots a big, stupid, goofy grin up at Eddie, even through the pain in his belly that seems to only be getting worse. "Ah do say, ah could get used to this!"

"Shut up before I strangle you," Eddie deadpans without missing a beat, and Richie merely laughs — then groans when the movement agitates his stomach.

As Eddie recalls some massage his ma taught him to aid indigestion, he puts both of his hands on Richie's belly, under his shirt. Truthfully, he's not sure of the credibility of the massage — he's never had to use it on himself or anyone else — but it's worth a try, and Richie instantly relaxes against Eddie when his soft hands get to work. He begins by tracing small circles with his fingers over Richie's belly, pressing gently against the taut skin as he does so. Richie lets out the smallest moan of relief, closing his eyes, before he tenses.

"Wait, Eddie— what the fuck are you doing? This is just going to make me fart _more._ Is that really what you want? Are you sure? 'Cause—"

Richie's cut off by a sharp, exasperated sigh. "Yes, idiot. That's the point. If you've got gas, you need to let it out — and you have a lot of it. So shut your face and let me massage you."

"You'll be the best wife someday, you know that, Kaspbrak?" Richie grins as he relaxes into Eddie's hold again, squirming pleasantly as he relishes in the feeling of the massage, resting his head back against Eddie's chest. Eddie rolls his eyes so hard he's sure they'll fall out of his head, and then he spits out a strand of Richie hair that's gotten into his mouth. Gross.

"I’m not going to be anybody's fucking wife," he shoots back, but continues to massage, nonetheless. "I just— I like taking care of my friends when I can." _Especially you._

Smiling to himself, Richie nods. "I’m glad it's you taking care of me, doctor K." And then Richie is spreading his legs a little bit wider, and a grimace takes over his features. He tenses and groans softly. "Uh— incoming."

Eddie encourages the fart that follows by massaging slightly harder. Not enough to hurt Richie, but enough to urge the gas making his belly upset to get out. Richie moans a little when he releases it, and a flush comes to Eddie's cheeks.

"Does that make you feel any better?"

"A little. I dunno, my stomach aches pretty bad," Richie shrugs, folding into himself just a little when his belly gives a particularly aggressive rumble. It doesn't sound pleasant, and it's enough to override any qualms Eddie has about the sour smell lingering in the air. It's a lot worse than usual, which is a subject of concern for Eddie. With another groan, Richie pushes out another bubbling fart with the aid of Eddie's massaging hands, turning his face to bury it in Eddie's sweater. "Fuck, it hurts real bad, actually."

"Did you eat anything weird?" Eddie asks, because it's at this point he begins to think there may be an underlying issue and it's not just a random case of bad gas. Or maybe it is — but there's no harm in checking all possible answers, first.

Scrunching his nose in concentration, Richie's big glasses shift on his face as he hums and thinks. He pushes them back into place with his index finger a moment later. "I mean... my folks are out of town, and I can't really cook worth shit, so—"

"Oh my god, Richie," Eddie cuts him off exasperatedly. "Please don't tell me you gave yourself food poisoning or salmonella, you dumb shit."

Richie shrugs sheepishly, groaning again when another bout of belly grumbles followed by another fart wracks his body. Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "What did you eat for dinner last night? Breakfast today?"

"You mean, other than your mom's pu— _ow!"_ a slap to the belly cuts him off. "Okay, okay. Last night I made chicken, and this morning I tried scrambled eggs."

"Oh my fucking god, _Richie."_ At least if it's from undercooked food it's not contagious, but also — how can Richie be so stupid that he gave himself some type of food poisoning, on _two separate occasions?_ "If you poisoned yourself and now I have to suffer the consequences I swear to fuck I will—"

He's cut off by a wince from Richie, another round of angry churning in his stomach, and another burst of gas. Pursing his lips, Eddie halts his massage to press the back of one of his hands to Richie's forehead.

"You don't seem to have a fever, but I'll keep an eye on it." He returns his hand to Richie's belly, who's now turned more onto his side and burying his nose in Eddie's sweater, groaning into it. He's curled more into a ball, but Eddie can still get his hands where they need to be, and so he continues to gently massage the taut skin of Richie's bloated tummy. The bloating hasn't subsided in the slightest, it seems, no matter how much gas Richie lets out; Richie sighs when a particularly foul fart leaves him, his face slightly flushed.

"Jesus. I’m disgusting. I’m sorry," Richie says, voice muffled by Eddie's sweater, and Eddie shakes his head. if _the_ Trashmouth Tozier is apologizing for being disgusting, something is very wrong.

"Are you sure you're okay, Rich?"

"Fit as a fiddle— fuck." Eddie can feel how aggressively Richie's belly is churning under his hands, can hear the rumbling and can only imagine the pain Richie must be in. He sighs.

"Focus on the movie and try to let out as much as you can, okay?"

"Careful what you wish for, Kaspbrak. This whole place is shaping up to be one hell of a stinkbomb."

"I don't care. You're even more annoying when you're sick, so you need to get better." That's not entirely true, what with the way Richie is currently curled up to Eddie like a kitten and the softer tones of his voice, but — it's not Richie, Eddie knows that. He wants Richie back, as annoying and as grating as he may be. He's Eddie's best friend, above all, and Eddie knows he couldn't get rid of Richie even if he tried.

Richie lets out a "mrrph" sound into Eddie's chest, but does try to watch the movie — meaning he's imitating characters and reciting lines, and he's not good at it, but that's okay.

As they watch, Eddie continues his massage and Richie continues farting; the smell is _bad_ and there seems to be no sign of improvement, which has Eddie worrying slightly more.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, Richie tenses in Eddie's hold before shooting upright. His eyes are wide as he looks at nothing, and suddenly, Eddie is worrying even _more._

"I— uh— I’ll be right back." And then Richie stands and makes a beeline for the bathroom, and— oh. _oh._ oh no.

The bathroom door slams behind Richie and Eddie sits. And waits. Picks at the skin around his fingernails. Chews his bottom lip. And after five minutes, he ups and dials Stan's number.

"Hello?"

"Are any of the losers sick?" Eddie bypasses a greeting and gets straight to the point, tapping his fingers against the wall where the phone is connected.

"No, not that I’m aware. Why?" Stan probably thinks Eddie's going through some personal freakout, so he quickly explains.

"I think Richie gave himself food poisoning, but I wanted to make sure nobody else was sick, because then it could be something contagious. but now I’m ninety-nine percent sure he's just fucking stupid and poisoned himself and now I’m stuck caring for him, so—" Eddie cuts himself off from his rant, clearing his throat. "Anyway, that's all."

"My bet is on Richie poisoned himself. Good luck."

"Thanks, I'll need it." He hangs up without a goodbye and returns to the couch where the movie is still playing, but he can't focus on that. All he _can_ focus on is that Richie's still in the bathroom, it's been ten minutes, Eddie's not sure if it's salmonella or shigella but it's probably not a norovirus if it's from undercooked food which is good at least and— Eddie takes a breath, grounds himself and rubs at his temples. It's fine. Richie's fine. Probably.

After fifteen minutes of sitting trapped in his own mind, Eddie gets a water bottle from the fridge and a banana. There's no applesauce, but maybe he can find some rice to cook later — toast, too. He also swipes a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink, just in case, and he curses when he realizes there're no masks in this house. Regardless, he swiftly makes his way to the door to the bathroom, then takes a small breath to prepare himself for whatever he's about to see. _Man up, Eds._

"Richie?" He calls after he knocks. "Let me in."

"It's— it's unlocked, but trust me, Eds, you don't want to come in here." Richie sounds weak as he speaks from the other side of the door, but Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Shut up, I’m coming in," Eddie snaps, hiking up his sweater over his nose before taking his last deep breath of fresh air, opening the door slowly a second later, and—

Oh, god. Richie looks fucking _miserable,_ slouched over on the toilet with his jeans pooled around his ankles and the hem of his shirt being tugged down over his crotch in an attempt for some decency. His knees are pressed together and his face is pale; he's drenched in sweat and oh, dear lord, the _smell._ For Richie's sake, Eddie resists the urge to retch.

"You look like death, Richie." No use beating around the bush, Eddie guesses.

"Fuckin' feel like it too," Richie responds, not meeting Eddie's big, intense eyes. He sounds as miserable as he looks and feels, and he presses his knees together harder and pulls his shirt down lower as his stomach gurgles. "Why the hell are you in here? In case you haven't noticed, doctor K, I’m kind of shitting my guts out."

Tentatively, Eddie steps forward, closer to Richie, as if he's approaching a startled, wild animal; when the lanky teen doesn't flinch, Eddie presses the back of his hand to Richie's forehead again. Still no fever, thank goodness, so Richie's case of self-inflicted food poisoning may not be that bad. Regardless, it's still no walk in the park.

"I don't care. You need to stay hydrated and get some fiber in you." Eddie shoves the water bottle near Richie's hands — stupidly — because Richie's using his hands hold his shirt and keep himself decent, _duh._

"Can't let anyone lay eyes on the family jewels except your ma, Eds." Richie cracks a stupid, lopsided grin that Eddie wants to slap right off of him. HHe resists the urge. "You'll just have to feed and water me yourself."

Sighing sharply through his nose, Eddie knows Richie's right — but just as he goes to unscrew the cap off of the bottle, Richie's body wracks with trembles and he's slouching further into himself as his belly churns and rumbles loudly. Then, with his mouth parted in a moan, his body does the inevitable and Eddie has to tear his eyes away when he hears the first bout of gas thundering against the toilet bowl followed by a splatter of diarrhea. Then there's more, and Richie moans again; whether it's from pleasure or from pain, Eddie's not sure, but either way, it must be uncomfortable. Eddie winces, then rubs Richie's shoulder comfortingly. Richie lets out an exasperated breath; he looks exhausted.

"Drink," Eddie orders then, remembering his task at hand. He uncaps the bottle and presses the opening to Richie's dry, full lips; he tries not to stare when Richie latches onto the rim and starts to sip, some water dribbling down his chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Eddie goes the slightest shade pinker and averts his eyes. At least Richie isn't fighting his orders.

Brushing Richie's curly bangs away from his sweaty forehead, Eddie takes notice of how long Richie's hair has gotten, all the way to his shoulders. He likes it.

Now is not the time to be noticing the delicate and intricate details of Richie. _Focus!_

"The fuck have I done to myself, Eddie?" Richie asks miserably. It makes Eddie's heart hurt.

"Like I said, probably poisoned yourself, idiot. But you're not vomiting and there's no fever, so that's a good sign. But, uh— the diarrhea probably won't end quickly."

"Jesus fuck." Richie's head falls back and he groans. "This sucks." And then, as if to prove his point in case neither he nor Eddie believed him, Richie's body doesn't hesitate to send another round of spluttering diarrhea echoing into the bowl below, Richie groaning through it.

If Richie's parents were here, Eddie would have placed the task in Maggie's hands — but they're not here and Eddie is, and Richie shouldn't be suffering alone. So Eddie braves the smell, the sound, and the general nature of the situation — the general situation being, _who the fuck takes care of their sick friend while their friend is literally shitting their guts out?_ Eddie, apparently; that's who.

He kicked a goddamn demon clown in the face and waded through sewer water. He thinks he can handle a little bit of Richie's waste.

Besides, Richie's the type of person to shit and piss with the door open at sleepovers _just_ to be disgusting and annoying, so it’s not like this is entirely uncharted territory.

"i know," Eddie practically coos — _the fuck_ — before pressing the bottle back to Richie's lips, urging him to take a bigger sip. Like a good boy, Richie obliges. Glancing at the banana he left on the counter, Eddie figures he'll give it to Richie when he's finished the first round, for sanitary reasons. The most important thing is that he stays hydrated. "You're a surprisingly good patient."

"Yeah, I could be a really naughty patient." Richie wiggles his brows, though he clearly brightens up a little at the compliment; he always enjoys a little bit of praise.

"I’d leave you to shit your pants if that were the case," Eddie deadpans, and Richie gives a lazy smile.

"Nah, you'd still fix me up good."

It's true, but Eddie won't let Richie know that.

"Shut up and drink."

The next ten minutes are spent coaxing Richie into drinking as much water as he can while the diarrhea wracks his body. Eddie has taken to massaging Richie's (still bloated!) belly when he's not forcing fluids down his throat, and he's also fetched a wet cloth for Richie's forehead. It's precautionary.

When Richie seems to be on the brink of exhaustion and the diarrhea seems to slow, Eddie leaves the room to leave Richie to wipe and deal with the aftermath in peace (Eddie doesn't get paid nearly enough to do that. Actually, he doesn't get paid at all. Wait — why is he doing this again? Oh, because Richie is suffering and there’s nobody else here to take care of him. At least, that's what Eddie tells himself). He brings the banana with him and he prepares a slice of toast to give to Richie when he re-emerges, even though Eddie knows Richie will be back on the toilet before too long.

Eddie returns to the couch just as Richie finishes washing his hands and shuts off the light in the bathroom, having discarded the wet cloth on the faucet of the sink. He's still pale, a little shaky, but he manages to make his way to the couch to lay down on his side, his head in Eddie's lap. Eddie sighs and strokes his hair. Richie's always liked that, and he deserves it right now.

The movie is still playing, but both boys are only half-paying attention to it. Richie begins to doze, but lets Eddie feed him before he does, albeit with a little complaining.

"Fuckin' happy holidays to me," Richie grumbles. "Don't know what I’d do without ya’ to take care of my dumb ass." Maybe it's the drowsiness talking, but Eddie smiles at the comment, anyways. Richie can't see it, luckily.

"No shit. I don't know how you'll ever survive on your own." Eddie continues to gently stroke Richie's hair, letting Richie know it's still just banter.

"I won't have to. Eds will take care of me forever." Another drowsy-induced comment, Eddie's sure, but it still makes his heart quicken. Will this be something they do in their twenties? Thirties and beyond? deep down, Eddie hopes so. He'd take care of Richie any day of the week. He's also scared of what that might mean.

"You wish." And then it seems Richie's dozed off, because there's no reply. He wakes up a little while later and the cycle continues, but even as Eddie is massaging Richie's stomach as he sits on the toilet well into the evening, Eddie finds he wouldn't trade it for the world.


End file.
